


colder throats

by 80slieberher



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, SHIT IS SAD, So., also between one and five, also its sad, and, i wrote this in less than four hours, in the morning, its unedited garbage basically, yall ever listening to colder throats by laila
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 00:24:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15400884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/80slieberher/pseuds/80slieberher
Summary: Bill and Stan have a shitty relationship because they're selfish and dumb. What else is new? / based off of Colder Throats by Laila.





	colder throats

**Author's Note:**

> its 5:30am and i am gonna regret this in the morning probably. sorry if its garbsge

Stanley Uris loved Bill Denbrough. He'd loved him for as long as he could remember.

He loved him so much, probably since the moment he’d laid eyes on him for the first time all the way back in kindergarten, immediately smitten with his wild stutter and wide eyes and warm smile and eagerness to share his crayons. Stan always knew it was an irrational thing to believe, five year olds couldn’t comprehend love, but then, Stan was twenty three and still could barely manage to comprehend it.

He loved him so much, he didn’t know if he’d ever have the capacity to love anyone else. Growing up, everyone else had crushes except for Stanley. He didn’t feel like what he felt for Bill had ever consisted as a crush, it was an intense feeling, but there weren’t heart flutterings like Beverly described of when they were thirteen. There was no zoo in his belly when Bill came around, only deep and slow and deliberate beats of his heart beneath his chest and behind his rib cage, steady and content.

He loved him so much, that he considered his first heartbreak to have come when Bill dated Beverly at fourteen. As cliche as Stan knew it was, jealousy was truly a disease, and Stan had caught a horrible case of it freshman year. He almost couldn’t stand to be around them, because then the horrible fluttering in his tummy came, but it only made him feel angry and sick. He didn’t hate them for it, no, he loved them both, they were his friends; he just couldn’t force himself to love them... _together_. It felt wrong. It felt like someone had put out a cigarette on his skin, searing a long trail of ash and agony down and into his arm and heart. It was excruciating, and though Stan felt bad, the news of a mutually-decided break up six months later made him feel like he could fucking breathe again.

He loved him so much, his second heartbreak came when Bill stopped hanging out with him the year after. They still saw each other when the losers hung out, but Bill stopped inviting Stan to his house for sleepovers, just the two of them, or for one-on-one arcade days, or to race paper boats with he and Georgie on rainy days. That heartbreak surpassed sadness, though Stan moped on a daily basis and refused to meet Bill’s eyes, and came much closer to anger. At the time, Stan had even thought he might’ve hated Bill. That was another time that the sight of Bill Denbrough set off a zoo in his stomach, but it wasn’t really a zoo, it was more like a fire. IT scorched his insides and threatened constantly to roar up his throat, but it was cold there, and the fire always died in that freezing abyss between Stan’s heart and his head, it never made its way to his lips.

He loved him so much, he didn’t know what to do other than cry when Bill managed to make it to his lips before the fire ever could. They were sixteen, Bill was the first of the club to get his real license, and he took everyone driving pretty often in the minivan his parents had given him for his birthday. Thank god for the night that Stan was without a ride home from Bill’s house after a club hang out - his father having promised him one but then going back on it, having to stay late at the temple to aid in resolving someone’s conversion crisis - because Bill offered in his place, and though Stan thought he might sooner jump into a cauldron of boiling oil, he accepted, because he would much rather have to only suffer fifteen minutes in Bill’s presence than the indefinite amount it would take for his father to come pick him up. Bill didn’t drive him home. Bill drove him to the post office, closed at that hour, and dark except for the single street lamp they parked in front of, and Stan had turned to him to ask what the fuck he brought him here for, maybe afraid Bill would murder him, before Bill leaned over and kissed him. “I’m suh-so sorry.” He’d said after, and Stan knew that he wasn’t talking about the kiss. Then, Stan cried, and his heart pounded mercilessly in his chest like it would beat right out of it if he didn’t take some deep breaths. When Bill asked why he was crying with a small laugh, wiping his cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, Stan told him it was because he was happy; and he was, but that wasn’t why he was crying.

He loved him so much, he let Bill make a fool out of him for the following seven years of his life. He let Bill get him drunk for the first time at seventeen, marvelling at the lust he felt when there was liquor in his veins. He let Bill get him high for the first time not too long after, dizzied and euphoric by all the touches of Bill’s fingertips on his body. He let Bill convince him that same year that labels weren’t a good idea in a town like Derry, every word Bill spoke about the shit they would be in if they let their relationship surface. He let Bill tell him that the dark was the only safe place for them to be together in between lustful kisses and roaming hands, believing anything he said in that state of mind. He let Bill follow him to college, adamant about Georgia and an accounting firm there, though he knew Bill wanted a writing school in England and wouldn’t be happy in Georgia and wanted Bill to be happy. He let Bill move out of their dorm into an apartment their sophomore year, nodding as Bill explained that people were getting suspicious and as his heart sank in his chest.

And there he was three years later. Graduated, getting a bachelor’s online because he could barely stand to be on the same campus that he was with Bill, and, oh yeah, still sleeping with the same douchebag that fucked him over a billion and one times. Why? Well, Stan asked himself that question every fucking day.

Right now, though, Stan wasn’t in Bill’s bed, but some other guy’s that he’d met on tinder. The heating in the man’s apartment was down far too low, and he could feel it in the back of his throat every time, cold and uncomfortable, the air outside seeping in through open windows. Maybe he was broke. That would explain why Stan bought the drinks at the bar.

But that was hours ago, and Stan was too sober by now to have any appreciation for this situation except maybe the songs of the birds chirping as the peach winter sun rose over the silhouettes of Atlanta buildings. He’d been watching the sunrise from where he was positioned in the stranger’s bed, the man he’d slept with - he couldn’t even recall the name - curled up and facing away from him, Stan glad for that fact. There was only one person who’s arms he didn’t mind so much to be wrapped up in for a whole night. The person that was still in his head despite his situation and had probably been in his head when he was intoxicated. He never really left it, anyway, so it didn’t matter much, he knew Bill didn’t think the same. That side of the river wasn’t Stan’s.

Stan watched the night sky reach dawn before untangling himself from the comforter and getting redressed, slipping out of the unknown apartment successfully.

 

Cold smoke spilled from Bill’s colder throat that same day’s night, Stan tucked safely and warmly under his arm as he moved a cigarette to and from his lips with the other, Stan’s breath escaping his mouth in clouds like smoke escaped his. Winter nights - most nights - with Bill always went like this; he smoked a cigarette and Stan stood with him in a silence neither of them felt much need to speak into, and then they would go upstairs and talk about what went on in the span of the last day or two or so since they’d last seen each other, and then they would drink and create the liquor lust that Stan had the audacity to admire when they were teenagers, and then they would lay in Bill’s bed and Stan would admire Bill’s young, handsome blue eyes as the night went on and Bill would admire Stan’s body in a much different light, and then they would do what Stan delusionally called _making love_ and Bill understandably called _fucking_. It was always good enough to classify as either, verging on perfect, even, but it was never enough to classify as both.

Stan wondered often if doing this even counted as living at all. He knew by now, for fact, that Bill would never be his lover. Bill had shown him that plenty of times, hell, he didn’t even want to see Stan if the sun hadn’t already gone down, and yet the protective embrace of his arm around Stan’s smaller shoulders and the warm, comforting presses of his lips to Stan’s temple made Stan’s heart beat in that content, slow, deep way, and Stan knew that he would always be Bill’s, regardless of the fact that Stan was only heat in between all-too-familiar sheets to the other man; someone to lay next to, after-hour company to wrap arms around and whisper sweet lies to only to hear them in his own ears, no matter how many times Stan bought into his game and whispered much sincerer trinkets of love back to him.

 

Even living among the bustling city with all of its light pollution, Stan still managed to catch glimpses of a few bright stars in the sky, always the same ones. He’d come to memorize their placements from the front steps of Bill’s apartment, like maybe he was expecting one of them to fall out of the blackness one day, burst and glimmer down across the sky just for him, just so he could make a wish.

He tore his eyes from the stars in the sky to the orange light at the end of Bill’s cigarette as he flicked ash from it, which, realistically, was probably the closest Stan was ever going to get to a star, except maybe Bill, as terribly sappy as that sounded in his own head. Bill’s eyes held more stars than the sky, Stan would know, he’d spent so much time poring over them, all of the fucking comets and galaxies they held, the milky way of Bill’s auburn hair disrupting his view sometimes, but always worth it because he just looked so breathtaking when he moved it out of the way again.

Stan hadn’t realized he was staring until Bill’s lips pressed to his forehead instead of his temple, and his eyes fluttered closed for only a second as he pushed up into the feeling, his heart squeezing in his rib cage. He hadn’t felt Bill’s hand holding the cigarette drop to his side, or he wouldn’t have reached around him, but Stan’s eyes were closed and his body was being guided far too fast by his heart to think about the flame catching the skin of his hand the way it did.

“Shit!” He hissed, yanking his hand back from where it was making its way to loop around Bill’s torso. He looked at the mark on the back of it, a small, smeared streak of ash coating him and the cooling burn.

“Shit, I’m suh-so sorry,” Bill apologized, immediately grabbing for his limb, examining it. He rubbed the ashes away gently with the pad of his thumb, the cigarette now discarded on the ground, Stan watching as Bill crushed it with the toe of his shoe.

“It’s okay,” Stan told him, still watching the cigarette as the smoke fizzled, taking his hand from Bill’s to finally wrap his arms fully around his torso. “Can we go inside?” He asked childishly, as if he wasn’t an adult that would have gone in any time he damn well pleased to.

“Y-yeah, c’mon, baby,” Bill spoke softly to him, Stan releasing his hold and Bill dropping his arm from around Stan’s shoulder to take his hand instead, linking their fingers, and there was that slow, deep rhythm again as Bill led him inside and up to his apartment.

Stan’s eyes stayed trained on his free hand, the burned on, watching the irritated red streak like it would open up and betray him, tell Bill all of his thoughts, ruin what they had. He had half a mind to tell it to be fucking quiet, but that would be ridiculous, and Bill would probably ask him if he’d said something.

 

Bill’s apartment was homey, and there was his old typewriter he took everywhere with him right in his living room on a desk next to his laptop, and his couch was worn in and comfortable, it was easy to tell that Bill was not alone in his home as much as Stan was.

“Guh-guh-go sit, I’ll get you suh-something for your huh-hand.” Bill had told him, releasing Stan and going into his kitchen after discarding his shoes and coat. Stan did the same, and then obeyed, again like he wasn’t grown enough to treat his own stupid wound caused by his own unawareness. Nonetheless, he sat patiently at on the edge of the couch, as he was used to cuddling up to Bill on it and was actually quite in the dark about how he would ever sit on it if he _weren’t_ cuddled up next to Bill.

Bill made his way out shortly, mismatched socks rubbing on the carpet as he approached, holding an obviously damp rag, slumping into the extra-worn space that he always sat in. Stan gratefully slotted into his right side, head resting on the cusp of Bill’s chest and shoulder, body moulding to the shape of Bill’s like he was meant to be there forever. He let his eyes close again and relished in the man’s presence for just a moment while Bill fidgeted, taking in the disgusting smell of cigarette smoke and Bill’s citrus-y cologne. The familiar slow, deliberate thud let him know that he was safe there in Bill’s arms once again.

“Hand,” Bill said, and Stan gave up his left, the one with the burn. Bill took his rag and held it to Stan’s skin. It was just a little warmer than it was in the room, possibly just because it was wetted, but it made his burn feel a little better. “I’m suh-sorry about that,” He continued, referencing the tiny injury, “I duh-didn’t mean to hurt yuh-you.”

“It’s okay,” Stan sighed. “It was my fault. I went to put my arms around you and my hand bumped yours. You didn’t do anything.”

“It was my suh-cigarette. If I could just quit thuh-huh stupid things like I kuh-keep saying I’m going to, it wuh-houldn’t have happened.” Bill protested, and Stan sighed again.

“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” Stan dismissed, but made no move to pull his hand away. “It’s not the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.” He joked.

Bill gave him a funny look, and didn’t say anything more about it.

They were silent for a while, Stan’s head laid on Bill and Bill’s head resting atop his. Stan thought that if Bill laid on his chest similarly, he’d probably be able to feel Stan’s heart, and would maybe understand the way he made Stan feel. Stan listened for Bill’s heart, and felt his pulse hum quietly under his clothes and flesh, small and regular.

“Bill,” He spoke eventually, voice quiet, beginning to shift in Bill’s arms.

The answering “Hmm?” that came from the man indicated he was as nearing tired as Stan was,  Stan climbing on top of him and into his lap, initiating things, beginning to move his lips openly and lazily across Bill’s neck, keeping routine as Bill’s hands met  his hips and then his arms closed around Stan’s body, pulling him impossibly closer.

“Take me to bed, please,” He requested helplessly, eyes fallen shut as his teeth and tongue grazed and licked at soft skin. His hands balled weakly into the fabric of  Bill’s shirt in his tired desperation. “I have to feel you tonight, please.”

Bill let out a muffled groan of agreement and shifted, hands moving to grab under Stan’s thighs as his head nodded against Stan’s, their noses brushing as Bill connected their lips, beginning to try to push himself up from the couch. Stan knew he went to the gym regularly, and they’d done this plenty of times for Stan to trust that Bill wouldn’t drop him, but his arms still wrapped around Bill’s neck, so even if Bill let go Stan wouldn’t fall, or if Bill fell at least Stan would fall with him.

He was put down carefully and gently onto Bill’s bed, Bill lazily grinding his hips into Stan’s as he leaned down between Stan’s thighs.

“Get naked already,” He demanded as Bill placing feather light kisses down his neck, possibly ignoring the leftover hickies from the night before. Stan had to do that before. It made him feel sick to know that there was someone out there putting lips on Bill, _his_ Bill, but he couldn’t control who Bill had in his bed. Bill could throw Stan out at any time and Stan would go and not come back, at least, until Bill called him again. Then he would go back, because he always did.

Bill smiled against him and let out a breath of a laugh before disconnecting, each man getting undressed and under Bill’s sheets, soon enough Stan’s body pinned under Bill’s, his hands scratching marks into the man’s back and hands holding his hips hard while moans left both of them. Bill’s thrusts were nothing short of intimate; they were slow, deep, and deliberate, like each one was crafted specifically for Stan, to elicit the moans of Bill’s name from him that Bill craved as he rocked into Stan.

The whimpers that escaped Bill’s mouth as Stan quietly moaned “ _Ah, Bill, like that, give it to me like that again_ ,” and as he tried to recreate all of his flawless thrusts were music to Stan’s ears, and he couldn’t imagine not hearing them less than twice a week, almost needing the sound just as much as the contact with Bill just to go on.

They came undone together like that, panting between familiar lustful kisses, the need to be closer overwhelming.

“I love you,” Stan told Bill, back arched underneath him and writhing as Bill had them ride out their highs together, face buried in Stan’s neck.

“I love you,” Bill repeated in the same way he had for years as they finished, lying through his teeth right to Stan’s face. Stan couldn’t even bring himself to be hurt about it anymore.

 

There wasn’t much time in between that and Stan cuddling into Bill’s chest, leg thrown over Bill’s bare body in the most comfortable position possible. He kissed Bill’s naked chest chastely.

“I mean it,” He whispered, maybe half hoping that Bill was asleep and couldn’t hear him. His hands rested flat on Bill’s abdomen, his skin hot underneath Stan’s touch. “I love you.”

“Me tuh-tuh-too,” Bill replied easily, sounding on the verge of sleep, the arms wrapped around Stan hugging him closer. “I luh-hove you.”

Stan swallowed. “No.”

“Hmm?” Bill questioned, sounding more awake now.

“You know what I mean.”

Bill was quiet for a moment, and though Stan’s face was buried where his neck met his chest, he could imagine Bill pursing his lips. “I d-d-don’t.”

Stan nodded. “You do. You don’t want to be with me.”

Bill was quiet for a long time again, and Stan thought he really had fallen asleep, until he spoke at last. “Will you cuh-come over again tomorrow?”

 _So you can smoke a cigarette and fuck me and we can pretend we’re in love again for another night?_ Stan wanted to ask, but held his tongue. He knew that was what would happen, regardless if he said anything or not. He just didn’t think he could bare to feel Bill nod and finally tell him the truth, and he didn’t want to argue against any more lies.

“Yeah,” He nodded. “Don’t I always?”

“I’m sorry,” Bill said again, drawing Stan in tightly, like he couldn’t get him close enough.

“It’s okay,” Stan sighed, placing another chaste kiss to Bill’s throat this time, feeling his heartbeat so familiarly despite himself. “It’s my fault, anyway.”


End file.
